


The Sins of Lazarus

by Lady_of_the_Prydwen



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amputation, Assassination, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone is a little bit gay, F/F, F/M, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, M/M, Minor Character Death, Noodle Dragons, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Sex, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 06:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11731179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_of_the_Prydwen/pseuds/Lady_of_the_Prydwen
Summary: They thought I would forget.She smiled wryly as she hauled the rifle up to her shoulder.They thought I would forgive.Her fingers curled around the trigger as the target came into sight. She held her breath as she held the rifle steady, lining up the man’s head in the crosshairs. A heartbeat of silence passed and she pulled the trigger, releasing the breath she held as the bullet found its mark. Her aim had proven true, and the well dressed man lay with a hole in his forehead.I’ve never been the gracious type.





	1. Chapter 1

_ They thought I would forget.  _

 

She smiled wryly as she hauled the rifle up to her shoulder.

 

_ They thought I would forgive. _

 

Her fingers curled around the trigger as the target came into sight. She held her breath as she held the rifle steady, lining up the man’s head in the crosshairs. A heartbeat of silence passed and she pulled the trigger, releasing the breath she held as the bullet found its mark. Her aim had proven true, and the well dressed man lay with a hole in his forehead. 

 

_ I’ve never been the gracious type. _

  
  
  


The pier bustled with activity in the cool September afternoon. Merchants sold their goods from makeshift stands as dockhands brought in the cargo from trade vessels. The air held a faint chill, a constant reminder that fall was quickly drawing to a close. The chill, however, did nothing to dissuade the throngs of people bustling about the Italian city. In the midst of the crowd, Hanzo Shimada and Hana Song posed as tourists, decked out in civilian garb. Their mission was to pose as siblings visiting from Japan, and to learn as much about the area as possible. Locals were, overall, a great source of gossip.

Upon further inspection of the two, Hana seemed more approachable with her bubbly demeanor and sweet smile, whereas Hanzo’s gruff mug and perpetual frown acted as a deterrent for social interaction. He had made an effort to seem more approachable, but inevitably the locals were more drawn to Hana. 

She had easily learned the language with the help of her tech, and so she spoke fluently with the locals. Hanzo, giving up on the sociable approach, busied himself by sketching out the piers into his notebook, as well as jotting down bits of information that stood out. Hana joined him on the bench and muttered a soft curse in Japanese.

“I feel like we’re getting nowhere.” Hana pouted. “We haven’t learned hardly anything new since this morning.” Hanzo chuckled at the teenager’s impatience.

“From one thing, know ten thousand things.” 

“You sound so old.” she quipped.

“I am old,” he chuckled, “I am also experienced.” 

Hana continued to pout as Hanzo finished a few sketches. He felt her anticipation and smiled. He remembered being young, insatiable for action and too eager for his own good. Not that it did him much good. 

_ But she is not you, now is she?  _

“Perhaps we should eat” Hanzo offered. Hana nodded eagerly, stomach growling in anticipation.

“People are also way more like to talk when they’re full of good food.” Hana chimed hopefully. And so the two set off in search of a decent meal.

 

The warehouses surrounding the piers seemed like the perfect place to conduct almost any type of illegal activity. Soldier 76 had busied himself with studying the layout of the warehouses and finding blindspots in the security cameras. He had placed a few of his own in strategic places, which transmitted video feed to his tactical visor. He felt exposed without his trademark leather jacket and energy rifle, but he could hardly pass himself off as a building inspector dressed as the notorious Jack Morrison. He had changed into cargo pants and a black t-shirt to blend in with the working class crowd. For this mission, he had been assigned the Commanding officer over a few talented Overwatch agents and outfitted with an A.I. that he had uploaded into his headset.

“Athena, give me an update on the video feed.” 

“The video feed is fully functional and total surveillance efficiency has been improved to 85 percent.” the artificial voice chimed back. 76 Hummed in satisfaction. Getting clearance to set up extra camera’s had been easy. He told a smooth lie about being sent from headquarters to beef up security due to a loss of shipments. He didn’t know whether it was his militaristic demeanor or the visor giving him a qualified air, but he had been given access with very few questions asked. He checked the list of blindspots Athena had compiled for him and proceeded to the next one. It would be nice to pull surveillance from the authorities, but currently the world was apprehensive about the return of Overwatch, and such activity would probably alert the enemy.  _ It’s your own damn fault, Jack.  _ he muttered to himself as he began installing another set of cameras.

McCree sighed as he plopped down on the couch in the hotel room. It was his job to stay and make sure no one infiltrated their quarters while the others combed the area for information. 

“Important job, my ass.” McCree swore as he flipped through the television stations. Practically everything was in Italian, and he barely knew basic conversational bits of the language. On top of that he had to swap out his cowboy garb for civilian clothing, which bothered him more than he would like to admit. He had insisted on keeping the boots and the hat, opting instead to swap the serape and chapps for a white button down and jeans. After flipping through the plethora soap operas he couldn’t understand and spaghetti westerns McCree finally switched off the television. He stood and stretched, grinning when his back popped. 

“I think that bar needs some old fashioned investigatin’” he said to himself with grin. After quickly inspecting himself in the mirror, McCree grabbed his wallet and his phone and headed out.

McCree found himself in a cozy and modern style bar, and took a seat at the counter. He used Apollo to translate all the drink options and prices before waving the bartender over. 

“Ya’ll got any whiskey?” he asked, silently praying that the bartender spoke at least some English, he couldn’t pronounce any of the foreign words to save his life. The bartender nodded and pulled out a glass from under the counter before filling it up with the amber liquid.

“So, what’s the word around these parts?” he asked as he took a sip. The bartender raised an eyebrow.

“Depends what you’re looking for, cowboy.” he said with a grin. Upon further inspection, McCree observed that the man had sweet sun kissed skin, olive green eyes, and black hair pulled back into a messy bun. He looked around twenty with a youthful complexion and a charmingly smooth face. Jesse decided he didn’t mind being stranded at the hotel after all.

“Well, I’m stranded here for a bit, and I was hoping to get a little sightseein’ done.” he paused a moment. “From where I’m sittin’, it looks like I’ve got quite a view.” The bartender blushed a lovely color and grinned to himself. 

“My name is Lorenzo, just by the way.” The lad sheepishly admitted, with his Italian accent becoming more prominent the more he was flustered. McCree smiled and tipped his hat.

“Jesse.” 

_ Maybe I can get a little info my way.  _ He grinned at the thought.

  
  


The docks were eerily quiet as the strike team positioned themselves. The objective was simple, to interrupt the illegal sale of technology, apprehend or eliminate all suspects, and to secure the payload. After reviewing the layout of the docks, it was decided Hanzo would clear the rooftops of any snipers and provide cover. McCree and Soldier 76 were to clear out the lower floors of buildings adjacent to the reported drop site, while Hana was to protect an alleyway that provided cover and an easy escape in the event that something went horribly wrong. 

Hanzo stealthily crawled up the fire escape, heaving himself onto the roof of a five story warehouse complex. He kept low while he scanned the roof for hostiles and any forms of cover. Upon finding that the roof was clear, he began to set up the signal interceptor. Athena had explained that it would block all forms of communication except for their own, thus preventing any agents he ran into from alerting the rest of the men to his presence. Once the interceptor was fully functional, Hanzo stood and quickly scanned the tops of the surrounding buildings.

“Sir, the signal interceptor is in place and fully functional.” Hanzo reported through his headset.

“Good work,” 76’s gravelly voice replied, “now secure the rest of the area.”

“Hai.” Hanzo replied before drawing gaining a running start. With a huff Hanzo leaped across the rooftop and landed with a roll. Upon spotting an enemy, Hanzo drew his bow. The arrow pierced the guard’s throat before he had a chance to call out. The guard dropped to the ground with a gurgling noise as blood began to pool around him. The method was grossly messy, but it effectively silenced his prey. With a grunt, Hanzo retrieved the arrow before notching it again. One after another, Hanzo cleared the roof of hostiles. 

_ Like target practice. _

 

“Sir, the roof is secure.” Hanzo’s voice sounded in the comms. 76 barked out an order to keep the roof secure while he swept another room. The warehouses had been vacated of civilians, and now the only life forms that his visor reported were the henchmen of whatever gang that had decided to buy technology from Talon. 

_ Goddamn idiots. _

“McCree.” he kept his voice low.

“Ya, boss?”

“My visor’s picking up three in the room ahead.” McCree nodded and cocked his pistol as 76 crept up to the door. He waited until McCree was in position behind him before he kicked down the door. They had caught the goons off guard, and 76 dropped the first with a shot to the chest. The second had recovered from the initial shock in order to fire off a few rounds. 76 ran along the side of the room while McCree covered him from the doorway. McCree used 76’s distraction to fire a round into the second’s skull. The third didn’t stand a chance, with two trained killer converging he desperately tried to radio for help. 76 used his rifle to bash him across the head before firing off a shot into his chest at point blank range. The man sank to the floor, face still etched in fear. McCree leaned down to rummage through the bodies for anything useful while 76 scanned the street below from the window.

“D.va, status report.” 76 barked into the headset.

“The escape route and the alleyway are secure.”

“Any resistance?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” 

Satisfied with Hana’s report, he turned towards McCree.

“Find anything useful?” 

“Well other than a couple of euros, no nothin’.”

“No identification?” 

“Nada, seems they knew better than to bring their ID to an illegal operation.”

McCree frowned They were dealing with professionals, no doubt. None of the foot soldiers had identification, and while they dressed similarly, there was no unifying symbol or recognizable crest to link them to a specific gang or organization. Gangs typically brandished their colors or marks at every turn, taking pride in being recognized. These men, though, these men were expendable unidentifiable soldiers sent to procure a payload for some unseen puppet master. He was used to gangs trying to seem bigger than they were by flirting with terrorism for firepower.

_ It ain’t worth it, never is. _

“Let’s move out, we’ve got a few more floors to clear.” 

“Right behind ya.”

 

An hour had passed since McCree and Soldier 76 had finished clearing out the building, and thanks to D.va’s expertise with tech, the strike team had taken control of the enemy’s communication lines once Hanzo had dismantled the signal interceptor. Hanzo was perched on the roof overlooking the docks, tensed and waiting. 

“Hanzo, the target is approaching, get your arrows ready.” Hana’s voice chimed from the headset.

“Understood.” he said as he drew his bow. He pulled a particularly deadly arrow from his quiver and positioned himself so that he could observe the happenings at the docks while still remaining under cover.

“It is my understanding that the leader of the gang here was supposed to meet with the target.” Hana continued, “So who is it gunna be?”

“I’ll do it.” 76 volunteered.

“With all due respect, bossman, with that rifle and that mug, ain’t no doubt they’ll recognize you as a the vigilante and think something here smells fishier than a cheap whorehouse.” McCree interjected. A deadly silence filled the comms.

“McCree has a point, commander.” Hanzo said.

“So it looks like McCree needs to be the one to do it, since Hanzo is our cover fire and I’m covering our escape route.” Hana said.

“Understood, McCree get out there, and whatever you do don’t screw this up.” 76 warned. McCree made his way to the alleyway and handed a confused D.va hit hat and serape.

“I’d stick out like a sore thumb.” He said as he shrugged on a jacket and knit hood he’d nicked from one of the many dead thugs. He then walked over to sit on a concrete divider to wait for the target. 

 

The black SUV pulled up to the docks, stopping near McCree. A man clad in a gray business suit exited the passenger side and made his way towards him. 

“Howdy.” he called out towards the man. The man frowned, unamused by McCree’s appearance.

“Until the lion learns to write.” the man said, looking at McCree expectantly. McCree grinned and lit a cigar.

“Every story will glorify the hunter.” he said smoothly.

_ Countersigns, huh? These fools ain’t messing around. _

“Where are your men?”

“Hidden.”

“What have you been told?”

“That you’re to buy some mighty important cargo, and my men and I are to guard you and the payload with our lives. No more, no less.” McCree was no stranger to lying or illegal dealings. Typically the grunts that guarded or escorted weren’t given much information. If it was above their paygrade and wasn’t necessary for them to know in order to do their job, they were left out of the loop. Plausible deniability and what have you. Regardless, the man looked pleased with McCree’s answers and began giving orders to those in the SUV. Upon further inspection, McCree noted that the man was undoubtedly American. He had short brown hair with a stubborn cowlick and a northern American accent that became more discernible the more he spoke.  

“The payload is incoming.” Hanzo said.

“Get ready.” 76 growled.

 

A black van approached the site slowly before stopping next to the parked SUV. It was followed by two more SUV’s. Two men exited the van wearing headsets and heavily armored vests, followed by roughly six men from each SUV. McCree noticed the familiar insignia on the sleeve of the one nearest to him.  _ Talon agents. _ The men talked in hushed tones before a large metal case was taken out of the SUV and transferred to one of the Talon agents. He opened it to confirm the contents before leading the men to the side of the van. The door opened to reveal about a dozen or so crates. The American in the suit motioned for one of the Talon agents to open one of the crates. It seemed neither party fully trusted one another. Once the crate had been opened, McCree snuck a glance at the contents.

“Man, that sure is some fancy tech.” 

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, the American’s head practically exploded in a shower of blood and gore. It took him a split second for the scene to process. The target had been taken out by a sniper that was almost certainly a third party.

_ Aw hell. _

McCree dove for cover behind the cement divider, drawing his weapon. 

“McCree, what the fuck is going on.” Soldier 76 shouted over the comms.

“The hell if I know”

A second shot rang out, and the driver of the black van slumped forward onto the steering wheel. McCree used the distraction to shoot SUV that had tried to make a getaway. The driver lost control, and the van swerved into a shipping container. 

“Commander, see if you can use the thermal vision in your visor to spot the sniper.” Hana said. 

“On my way.” 

A moment later, 76 burst through the window of a second floor building. He landed with a roll before sprinting towards McCree. The remaining Talon agents took cover behind their vehicles while the firefight ensued. 

“Hanzo, now would be a great time for that cover.” McCree shouted as he shot off a few more rounds. They were converging on his inadequate cover, and 76 was preoccupied with finding and eliminating the sniper. 

Hanzo gritted his teeth as he shot off arrow after arrow. He notched an explosive arrow, ducking just in time to miss a spray of bullets. He took in a deep breath before pushing himself away from the cover and aimed the arrow at the SUV that many of the Talon agents had taken cover behind. It landed in the side of the car, and shortly after it exploded in a shower of fire and sparks. The men who could scrambled away as the car caught fire.

“Cover provided.” 

 

76 scanned the surrounding area, desperately searching for the discoloration that was indicative of human life. He ran through the maze of shipping containers and warehouses, growing more infuriated when his searched turned up empty handed. He stopped when he reached the ships and held a hand to his comm.

“D.va, report.”

“Escape route clear, commander. Not that we need it now.”

“McCree, report.” 

“The payload is secure, and unfortunately none of these goons wanted to come willing, so someone should call the undertaker.”

“Hanzo, report.

“Sir, all is clear, ready to set the beacon for the dropship.”

“Alright team, well done. Group up at the payload.”

The soldier reluctantly made his way towards the payload. Despite the intrusion of the unknown sniper, the strike team had secured the shipment of technology and eliminated several Talon operatives. As he neared the the gaggle of Overwatch agents he began shouting out orders.

“D.va, setup the evac beacon and prepare the payload for extraction.”

“Yes, sir.”

“McCree, search the bodies, see if you can find any identification or useful information on them.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“That’s ‘sir’ to you.” He growled. McCree waved him off with a sarcastic salute. He rubbed his temples and finally registered how many people lay dead. With Overwatch constantly struggling for legal recognition and the escape the disastrous image that the fall of Overwatch had left, this almost guaranteed a few stacks of paperwork and a meeting with an Italian ambassador.

_ Goddamn idiots.  _ He mumbled to himself.


	2. Memories

All was silent in the desolate Romanian town. Ivy snaked up the walls of abandoned buildings, and the elements’ unchecked reign over the town had weathered away most of the structurally sound buildings. Debris and rubble littered the empty streets, and the scurrying of small animals and roaches were the only sounds that echoed out in the dead of night. Inside one of the few structurally sound buildings, a lone figure waited silently. Leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, the woman fiddled with the settings on her tactical visor. She was equipped with a modified riot mask with a highly advanced visor in place of the eye guard. 

“You’re late.” her voice sounded deep and heavily distorted.

“Am I?” The second woman materialized a few paces from the door.

“No,” the figure straightened, “It’s just so cliche, I couldn’t resist.” The woman near the doorway let out a laugh. The tech implanted into her let radiated a purple glow, which gave the dilapidated room an unnatural glow. 

“Let’s cut to the chase, you need information that I have, and you have something that I want.” The woman clad in purple typed on a keyboard holographically projected by her tech. She pulled an image of a rather famous businessman along with pictures of documents and correspondence. 

“You want this information, you have to pay for it.” She said as she typed away with metallic, claw-like fingers. 

“I don’t do favors,” the woman by the corner paused, “Or blackmail,  _ Sombra _ .” Shock glided over her face momentarily before it was concealed by the smirk that spread across her face.

“You certainly did your homework.”

“I have contacts of my own, including information I’m sure someone like you could make good use of.” Sombra considered her offer, normally she blackmailed people into puppetry. With her many secrets, she had pulled many strings, but this woman offered something different. The information she had obtained had been easy pickings for the likes of her; however, the knew very little about the woman before her, normally she had no problems with ghosts as they were, but this one knew the game Sombra played.

_ Impressive. _

“I have the countersign to get in contact with an operative within a certain time frame, you hand over what we agreed upon, and it’s yours.” 

Sombra smiled and used her translocator to teleport in front of the woman and reached out with her wires. They stopped right near the entrance to her tactical headset when she realized the barrel of a shotgun was pressed into her gut. 

“Don’t bother trying, chica. Not everything is electronic.”

Sombra retracted her tech with a scoff.

“You’re no fun.” she said as she procured a simple memory card. The woman reached out and grabbed the disk. She leaned in close to Sombra, and said, “Eat my wings to keep me tame.”

Sombra released the intel before disappearing, leaving the woman alone the roaches and crumbled stone. 

  


Winston drummed his fingers along the desk as he read over the combined reports from the strike team. The team had secured a dropship to safely transport the confiscated technology to Watchpoint: Gibraltar where their main base of operations were for the time being. Soldier 76 had hitched a ride back on the dropship while the rest of the strike team opted to go back to their hotel to reschedule more comfortable accomodations. Winston sighed as he eyed the various tech found in the shipment. The type and use of the components varied drastically, thus Winston could not wager an accurate depiction of the target’s buyer. The only observable facts that he had observed from the report were that Talon was obviously involved and that they had disrupted the sale of a very serious and powerful buyer. 

_ Don’t forget the fact that you are working without official sanction. _

The ever present thought weighed heavily upon him. Overwatch was obviously needed with the rise of Talon and the ever growing tension between humans and omnics. On top of it all, the legendary criminal, Doomfist had escaped from maximum security prison. 

_ No one had expected the fight to be easy, but no one expected him to be so ruthless. Genji stood, hunched over in front of the car he had been thrown into, synthetic limbs severely damaged and malfunctioning. He had glanced over to him, head bowed as he tried to collect himself. Tracer, sensing Genji’s weakened state had moved closer to Doomfist in an attempt to distract him. He stood still, her barrage of pistol attacks hadn’t phased him in the slightest. Once sensing her pattern, he reached for her and caught her by the back of her chronal accelerator. He tore it apart with one swift movement, sending Tracer into a frenzy. She had tried desperately to stay in the present, she had run for him, reached out to him, but it had been too late. She had been sent back to the hell that was linear limbo. It was then that he felt the rage swell in his chest boil over. His restraint snapped, and he went into a primal rage. It was then that he was powerful enough to stop Doomfist. Only then when their fists met in combat, did the villain fall. _

Shaking his head, Winston cleared the memory from his mind. The world needed Overwatch, that much was clear, but it was obvious that Overwatch needed a new systematic playbook. Having nearly free reign and complete trust in friends might have been necessary during the Omnic Crisis, but it had screwed them over in the long run. It was the blind eye for the sake of friends, forsaking protocol, and the distrust of the people and world governments were among the major factors that caused the fall of Overwatch, and Winston would be damned if he let it happen when the world needed them most. He just needed the United Nations and the governments of the world to give them a chance. 

Doctor Angela Ziegler had devoted her life to helping those in need after the fall of Overwatch. She had believed in the tenants that Overwatch stood for, and she fully believed that her work in third world countries and in areas of crisis would be suitable replacement. It kept her mind off of the many friends they had lost and the fact that the world was in shambles. While her makeshift tents and field hospitals were no cutting edge laboratory, they provided her the means to help the people that could not help themselves. She shoved the datapad on the desk with a huff. It was obvious the world needed Overwatch to rise from its ashes and be reborn to be better than it had been before to deal with the rising threats, but she couldn’t join unless the United Nations approved. She received the news sporadically and many weeks late, due to the isolated aspect of her job, but she had known based on the growing casualties and the rise of slumlords were merely a symptom of a larger, more serious disease. 

_ Like the fever that indicates a deadly infection. _

Angela sighed as she took a seat. It was frustrating knowing that she needed to do something, but could only do so much due to all the red tape.

_ Now I know how you felt, Jack. _

She closed her eyes and placed her head in her hands. That day was one of the most difficult experiences to live with. The guilt of not saving more people haunted her, and she had often woke from nightmares, drenched in cold sweat and reaching for those she could not save. They had lost so many friends. Jack, Gabe, and Ana all taken by the explosion. 

_ But you saved Gabe. _

Her gut churned, she had saved him, but at what cost? 

_ She cried as she searched frantically through the rubble. So many civilians, so many friends dead or dying. “Heros aren’t supposed to die, damnit!” she sobbed as she pushed through debris to enter a closed off room. It was there that she had found Gabe, her dear friend trapped underneath the massive pieces of concrete. She had pried him from the jaws of death, she had engineered a way to save him. Unfortunately, death is impatient, and his cells rapidly deteriorated faster than she could make them regenerate. She had made the decision to pull the plug. It had been her decision to save him, and it was her decision to kill him. They had buried him next to Jack and Ana, allowing them to be joined in death while she was trapped above and alone to weep.  _

She dried the tears that had fallen onto the desk. Tears could not raise the dead.

“Dr. Ziegler?” a nurse softly rapped on the door to her quiet quarters. 

“Yes?” she asked as she dried her eyes and tried to compose herself.

“You have a visitor, shall I ask him to ask again later?” A visitor?

“No, send him in.” she said as she smoothed out her coat. She turned to face the door, but she couldn’t have anticipated the person that walked through the door.

Doctor Angela Ziegler was still as mesmerizing as the day he had met her, broken and dying in the ruin of his life. She had appeared, clad in white wings with a golden halo and offered him life. He, being a childish prick filled with angst and hatred, had never fully appreciated her cool head and devotion to giving people a chance to live. Now she stood in the middle of a repurposed building, clad in white and offering a chance at life to those downtrodden. 

“Genji?” she asked, a mix of confusion and surprise plastered on her face.

“Angela.” he breathed out her name.

“What are you doing here?” her question snapped him out of his reverie and brought him crashing down to reality. 

“I have some news, you might need to sit down for.” he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Oh no.” she gasped. “Did someone else die?”

“Wha-” he started but she didn’t notice him as she spiraled into a nervous frenzy.

“Oh my god, was it Hanzo?” the name tugged at his chest. Despite all his inner peace, he still hated where he stood with his brother.

“No, no one died. Angela, listen to me, please.” she sighed and ran a hand through her hair before straightening and facing him.

“It’s Doomfist, he escaped maximum security prison.”

Her hand covered her mouth and she stumbled back to her chair. “Oh my god” she whispered. He moved to sit across from her, and they sat in silence for a moment. Despite the circumstances, he was happy to see her.

“Angela” he said softly. She met his gaze. She wore a face of resignation.

“They need us” he said.

“I know.”

_ “I need to do this, Angela.” _

_ “I know.” _

_ She had always been supportive of him, even when she didn’t understand him. She had never understood his obsession with his past. She understood the pain that his brother had caused, hell she had put him back together from the scraps that Hanzo had left, but she couldn’t understand his pure hatred or his grief. He had lost his home, his family, even most of himself. The anger was so intense at times that he choked on his rage. She didn’t understand how much it had consumed every waking moment. It was because of that intense grief that he had noticed little else. She had supported him through the pain of reconstruction, and in the wake of the fall of Overwatch, he had left her to hunt down his family to destroy the remains of his family’s legacy. She was a saint, and he was a wretch.  _

“What are we going to do, Genji?” Her soft voice dragged him from his memories.

“We help people” he said determinedly. 


End file.
